Good Old Days
by MysteriousStranger112
Summary: After five years, the Lone Wanderer returns to the Capital Wasteland. Why did he leave? Can he deal with the changes wrought during his absence? Old friends change, new enemies surface, and a new chapter begins...
1. Prologue

_Hey everybody, how you kids handling post-apocalyptia? It's me, your host, Three Dog! Awooooo! And you're listening to Galaxy News Radio. Now most days I'd be cracking jokes and making fun of those "patriotic" morons we called the Enclave. But today, my broadcast is of a more sentimental nature. So do uncle Three Dog a favor, children, and lend me your irradiated ears._

_ Now chances are if you listen to my radio that you've already heard me raving about a certain "Lone Wanderer" traveling the Capital Wasteland. He's been called many things: Savior, Hero, Friend to the People, Protector, the Last and Best Hope of Humanity if you wanna get dramatic. A couple of you crazies have been calling him a Messiah, and folks, you might want to dial that back a bit. We've got enough weird-ass cults as is. But my point still stands, children, that this kid is probably the best chance we've got in this fucked-up wasteland._

_ Just to recap, this is the guy that risked his life to activate Project Purity—which is the reason most of you have fresh, clean water. This is the guy that wiped out those Enclave assholes and told Mr. Big-Shot President John Henry Eden to screw himself. This is the guy that deactivated that live nuke in Megaton, which I bet most of you didn't even know about. And he did it for free. For free! Mr. 101 has fought Raiders, Talon Company, and Super Mutants. He's wandered as far south as Point Lookout and kicked ass as far north as the Pitt. He's co-authored the best-selling Wasteland Survival Guide, and saved more lives than I've had Nuka-Colas. Which is admittedly a lot; this radio stuff is hard work. Some of my contacts tell me he's even been to space, but let's not overdo it, ya know what I'm saying?_

_ The thing is, the Lone Wanderer has had every reason to turn out as heartless and opportunistic as most of us trying to survive out here. This kid grew up in an underground Vault with no mother and too many rules. The biggest being, "We're born in the vault, we die in the vault, blah blah blah." But he was forced out when he was nineteen, chasing his father into a godforsaken hellhole with no experience and no knowledge. He spent weeks searching and risking his life, and what happened? His father was killed by the Enclave. James died in pursuit of his dream: the waters of life, flowing free and pure, for any and all. And his kid, instead of curling up into the fetal position, fought for that dream. He joined up with those knights in power armor, the Brotherhood of Steel, and reactivated Project Purity. Nearly killed himself too, from what I've heard; that G.E.C.K. terraformer is powerful stuff. And because of him, the Capital Wasteland is a marginally safer place. No more Slavers, no more Enclave, and free water. Trade is picking up too—only this morning I heard about a town being started up in the National Mall. I guess the Muties are finally losing some territory._

_ So I guess what I'm trying to say is, be grateful. We all owe this guy a hell of a lot. Not sure where he is or what he's doing, but it's gotta be something for the good of the rest of us. And even if it's not…ah, what the hell, kid. You deserve a break. And if you're listening, thanks. Oh, and say hello to Ms. Sarah Lyons for me, heh heh heh._

_ Anyway, today's weather will be be-ootiful sunshine with fluffy white clouds and a chance of rain. Nah, just kidding kiddies. It's gonna be radioactive dust storms and clear skies all day, just like every other day. Tune in next week for our five-day forecast!_

**Five Years Later**

Lug-Nut surveyed the radioactive wastes before him, and spat into the dirt. He was sick and tired of the goddamn scorching sun, the goddamn irradiated wind, and the goddamn grit that got into his armor. Most people were used to the ever-present layer of dust coating their clothes, but Lug-Nut preferred luxury. At least, as close to luxury as you could get in post-apocalyptia. _One of these days_, swore Lug-Nut, _I'm catchin a caravan to New Vegas and never comin back. _

"Hey, boss!" called a harsh voice. Lug-Nut turned to see his lieutenant One-Eye crossing his arms. "A couple of the new guys wanna have a word with ya." Lug-Nut grimaced and spat again, then got up to check on the rest of the gang.

Lug-Nut made his way through the ancient car wreckage and immediately spotted his twelve-man gang of Raiders. Two of the new recruits—Lug-Nut couldn't remember their names—were planted in front of the others. "Alright, what's the problem now?"

"We been thinkin about yore plan," drawled the lean one, "and we don' like it." Lug-Nut sighed and kneaded his forehead. "First of all, it ain't my plan. I'm just following orders. Second of all, what's not to like? We camp at this drive-in and rob anyone who comes by. They don't like it, we knock 'em out and sell 'em to the Slavers for some extra Caps."

"Oh, we know what you done said," drawled the recruit. "We jes' ain't buyin' it. How many caravans done come through here? How many trav'lers from down south? Not one. In my opinion, we been wastin' time. Why the hell don' we move east into D.C. and git those Caravans instead, huh? Maybe you just plain stupid, is that it?" The brawny recruit cracked his knuckles menacingly, and some of the other Raiders fingered their weapons.

Lug-Nut swore under his breath. "Look, Tex…" he began. "I'm Mex," interrupted the lean recruit. "He's Tex." "Alright, I don't give a shit. Look, you morons pay attention. We don't go into west D.C. You know why? 'Cause there's already a million fucking gangs waiting there, made up of idiots like you two! The caravans don't go through that way; they follow the river down south to the Bridge. And I really don't feel like dealing with the goddamn Brotherhood army waiting there! Now listen, word is already spreading about all the trade routes opening up. So sooner or later, a crapton of idiots are gonna come up this way with supplies and ammo, lookin for fresh water, and we'll be here to make some easy money. You get it?"

"But why don' we go north and raid some of those towns?" Mex stubbornly persisted. "There's a nice ripe Vault and some scrap heap called Megaton up that way. They got Caps, right?" Lug-Nut spat again. "The Vault is sealed and guarded. There's no way we can get in with the shitty equipment we've got. Megaton's even worse; they got walls, robots, and crack shots waitin to blow people's heads off. Not to mention that entire fucking area is protected by the Outcasts! You idiots remember the last gang that tried to raid the Outcasts?" Lug-Nut's confused gang shook their heads. "Exactly! Trust me, this is the blue milk run. All we have to do is wait for some poor sap to show up, and…"

"Boss!" yelled one of the scouts suddenly. 'We got one! From the south!' The gang immediately scrambled into action, setting up positions and checking weapons. Lug-Nut flashed a triumphant smirk and motioned Mex and Tex over. "You guys are going in to give him a nice wasteland welcome."

Mex, Tex, and two others stood a short distance from the drive-in, awaiting the traveler. Lug-Nut gave the guy a once-over, now that he was in view. He had an old, dirty duster—even dirtier than Lug-Nut's armor—and a crudely woven hood pulled over his eyes. Even from his position Lug-Nut could see he had a mass of long, dark hair with a shaggy beard. The guy walked with a limp, but he had a rifle on his back—although Lug-Nut was quick to note that the gun was ancient, and looked like it hadn't been used in years. The traveler continued to limp toward Mex and Tex, seemingly unable to see them. Tex hefted his sledgehammer and stepped forward, causing the man to run into him. Lug-Nut stifled a laugh; the guy was blind!

"Wh-who are you?" stammered the traveler. "Wh-where am I?" "Ah, don' worry yer handsome head, sir," Mex sneered. "We're jes' the, uh, Widows an' Orphans Collectin' Fund!" The gang began to laugh and Tex guffawed loudly. "Yeah," cackled Mex, "and I'm gonna need a donation, for, uh, my widow and her three kids!" The gang whooped and hooted insults.

"Oh, w-well, uh, I guess that's a noble c-cause, good sir. How m-much do you want?" Mex motioned to Tex to pat the guy down. "How about…lessee…one thousand Caps!" The gang was by now rolling on the ground in laughter. "Oh, a-alright. Here you are, one th-thousand caps." The stranger withdrew a sack from his duster and dropped it on the ground. The clinking of hard metal was audible over the screams of laughter from the Raider gang.

Mex's jaw dropped but he quickly recovered. "Actually, we, eh, all got widows to take care of. Some of us got a couple widows each, so how about…" The stranger withdrew another sack and dropped it, where it made another loud clink. The Raiders stared silently, unable to believe their luck. Mex immediately rushed forward and began scooping up the bags. Tex stepped forward, greedily awaiting more. "Where you from, stranger?" huffed Mex, busy with the weight of Caps.

"N-near here," replied the man. One of the other Raiders behind him grabbed the rifle on his back. He gave it an appraising look and disgustedly spat on the traveler. "The fuck, man? This filthy piece of shit is outdated. You plannin' on firing this antique anytime soon?" "I-it belonged to Abraham L-Lincoln," murmured the man in a quavering voice. All the Raiders howled with laughter. "Abree-ham Lincoln?" chuckled the Raider. "The forty-second President of the U.S.A? And I'm a Deathclaw!" "S-something like that," chuckled the man, but the gang was too busy to hear him.

"Never min' them, stranger," interrupted Mex. "Ya' got anymore goodies for us poor folk?" Tex nodded eagerly. "Oh s-sure," murmured the stranger. "J-just bring your b-big friend with the hammer over here and I'll give it t-to him." "Ah course, stranger," grinned Mex. Tex moved up to the traveler, hands outstretched. "Hang on," mused Mex, "how did ya' know he had a…"

A knife blossomed in the man's hand. Before Mex could so much as switch off his safety Tex was falling to the ground in a bloody heap. The Raider near Tex let out a yell and tried to backpedal. Then the knife slipped in between his armor plates. The man turned to Mex, his hood rising to reveal blazing eyes. Lug-Nut's heart missed a beat.

"Say yer prayers, motherfucker!" roared the Raider clutching the rifle, and he pulled the trigger. CLICK. The man turned to the Raider as he struggled in vain to fire. "It's not loaded, you know." The knife flashed and the Raider collapsed clutching the remains of his throat.

The man quickly spun to see Mex frantically trying to gather up the bags on the ground. Mex raised his eyes, horrified. "Guess what?" said the man. Mex, confused, said nothing. "Widows have dead husbands." Mex swore and ran, dropping the bags as he went. The man casually flicked his wrist, and the knife sailed through the air to penetrate the top of Mex's spine. Lug-Nut and his gang stared silently in horror. Then One-Eye roused himself and roared, "Get 'im!"  
The Raiders raised their guns and opened fire, but the man was already behind the cover of nearby boulders. The bullets pinged off the rocks, keeping the man pinned down. One-Eye pumped his shotgun and ducked down beside Lug-Nut. "Orders, boss?" Lug-Nut rocked back and forth, whispering to himself. "Orders?" repeated One-Eye. "It's him…he knows me…I'm a dead man…five years…he knows me…" One-Eye shook his head and peered above cover. "Where's the bastard?" he snarled. "Still behind those rocks," replied a scout, "he ain't moving. But it's fine, he ain't armed. We can go in and take 'im."

BANG. The scout's head exploded into red mist. BANG. Another Raider fell backward with a hole in his chest. Three more bangs and three more Raiders fell dead. One-Eye and the remaining gang members pointed their guns at the man, who calmly held a .44 Magnum. One-Eye laughed and stepped out from behind cover, lowering his shotgun. "Alright asshole. You got one bullet left in that six-shooter, and you can't get all of us. If you shoot me, you get pumped full of lead, so how's about you drop that gun, and we'll sell you inta' slavery instead a' killing you."

The man surveyed the array of weapons trained on him. Then he fired. One-Eye yelped and threw himself down, narrowly dodging the bullet. One-Eye leaped up, about to yell orders to waste the asshole, when something caught his eye. A fire had started on the wrecked car where the bullet had penetrated. Then the fire flared up. _Car is on fire._ _Cars have nuclear reactors. Fire plus nuclear reactor equals…oh shit._ Then the explosion blew apart the rest of One-Eye's thoughts.

The man stooped to pick up his rifle and sighed as he surveyed the field of carnage. _What a waste of life._ The last remnants of the localized mushroom cloud blew away on the wind. The man shook his head and finished cleaning off his knife. He carefully examined Lincoln's Repeater—it appeared the Raider hadn't damaged it—then replaced it on his back and got to his feet. His ears caught a slight rustle, and he carefully raised his Magnum. "Come on out where I can see you!" Lug-Nut slowly got up, trembling, his hands in the air.

"You…you killed 'em all!" Lug-Nut squealed. "They shouldn't have tried to rob me," retorted the man, giving Lug-Nut a quick once-over. He looked unarmed, but the man didn't really want to risk it. He kept his Magnum trained on the Raider and flicked off the safety. "Please…please don't kill me," pleaded Lug-Nut. "You made your choice. How many other innocents have you robbed? Sold into slavery? Murdered?" "You were the first! The rest of the guys were gonna mutiny, I couldn't just leave. I was just followin' orders! My bosses woulda killed me, and—"

"Shut up," interrupted the man. He closed the distance between the two with a few strides and pressed the cold metal of the Magnum against Lug-Nut's head. Lug-Nut stared up at him, cowed. "I know you," he said. A flicker of recognition passed over the man's face. "I know you," continued Lug-Nut, trembling. "You ain't no man. You're the devil himself." He looked down at the ground and shut his eyes.

The man considered Lug-Nut, his hand tightening around the Magnum's trigger. Then he sighed and replaced the safety. "Get out of here." Lug-Nut raised his head, his face contorted by confusion. "You're not worth the bullet. Get up and get running. If I see you raiding again…" Lug-Nut shot up and sprinted away. Away from raiding, away from the Capital Wasteland, away from the judgment of that demon and his blazing eyes.

Perhaps today was a good day to catch a caravan to New Vegas after all.

The man watched Lug-Nut disappear into the distance. _In a land of murderers, how can there be room for mercy?_ He holstered his Magnum and surveyed the charred Raider corpses. _Nothing worth scavenging. The explosion probably destroyed most of it._ He checked his supplies; enough to last two more days. _Megaton is a day's walk to the north, if I remember correctly. _Unbidden, the begging voice of Lug-Nut invaded his mind. '_You ain't no man. You're the devil himself.' _The Lone Wanderer shook his head. _Welcome home._

_

* * *

_

The figure watched the Lone Wanderer. He had made short work of the Raider gang stationed here. That was good. He would need to be at his best and ready for what was to come. The figure wondered how the Lone Wanderer would deal with the new Capital Wasteland. Probably not well. The figure doffed its fedora and ruffled its overcoat. It silently prayed that its plans would work. Five years was a long time to be away from home.


	2. Ache

Alex stared into the fire, lost in thought. He casually poked his stick into the embers, stirring up smoke. _Megaton's going to be the trial run. Hopefully their policy on newcomers hasn't changed. _He took a gulp of water from his canteen—the radiation hardly fazed him anymore—and took a bite out of a cooked Mole Rat thigh. He swallowed and grimaced. _Disgusting. A bit of Wonderglue and some Ketchup would fix that. Too bad I'm running low on supplies._ Alex absently scratched his face, only vaguely registering the ragged beard and long hair. _Jesus, I need to shave. I'm twenty-nine years old and I've got sixty-year old facial hair._ Not that many people lived to be sixty these days, he reflected. Radiation, mutation, and monsters saw to that. Alex took another gulp of water and lost himself in the flickering flames.

Memories appeared, unbidden. The sun, blinding his eyes for the first time. Teaching Dogmeat to catch Frisbees. Racing Sydney to the Declaration of Independence. Mapping D.C. with Reilly. Moira Brown, concocting her Wasteland Survival Guide; Agatha, hands trembling as she stroked her ancestor's violin; Three Dog, howling his radio broadcasts. Sharing drinks with Charon, Fawkes, and Butch. The Regulators, the Abolitionists, the Brotherhood of Steel. Sarah, smiling, laughing, folding him into an embrace. _Looks like I'm not a good soldier after all._

Jumping out a window to escape Super Mutants, howling for his blood. Resetting broken bones by hand. Curling up under desks while Deathclaws searched for his scent. Raiders, Talon Company, the Enclave. The greed of Mr. Burke; the cruelty of Eulogy Jones; the terrifying ambition of Colonel Autumn. President Eden, coldly calculating, concealing subjugation and genocide behind a sterile mask of patriotism. The Pitt's pollution and slavery; Tenpenny Tower's prejudice and hate; Point Lookout, where his worst nightmares came to life amidst hallucinations and swamp water. Harold coughing, whispering. _Why couldn't you just kill me? _Amata crying, turning her back on him. _You have to leave, again…for the good of the Vault. _James, sinking down, engulfed by radiation. _Run, son…run! _Strapped to an operating table in the Citadel, the G.E.C.K. powering up, frantic beeping, his senses overloading with white-hot and—"NOOOO!"

Searing pain shot through Alex's head, and his eyes flew open. He breathed deeply, trying to calm himself. With each breath the hammer on his skull ebbed, and the spread of the pain slowed. A sudden explosion of pain in his chest, and Alex fell to the ground. Alex attempted to scream and tasted blood. He curled into a ball, wracked by spasms. Nothing but intense, horrible pain, obliterating reality. With a supreme effort he summoned a wall of rage, condensing the pain into one throbbing spot on his forehead. After several agonizing minutes the pain had gone, leaving Alex panting, alone under the night sky. The stars were the last thing he saw before blissful unconsciousness.

* * *

The first sensation Alex was aware of was the blood in his mouth. The second was the harsh sun beating down on his face. Alex rolled off his back and began coughing into the dirt. _That was worse than the Mole Rat meat._ Alex gingerly raised himself up, wincing every few seconds. The old aches still hadn't gone away completely; if anything, they'd gotten worse over the years.

The episodes, when they began, had occurred very rarely, and were much less severe. First it was once a month, then once every week. Now it was every few days. Meditation and deep breaths could reduce the pain, but it was still relentless. It was as if every hurt he had ever suffered—every broken bone, every irradiated limb, every bad memory—was slowly killing him. And it was killing him, Alex ruefully reflected. _So much for the invincible Lone Wanderer; some days I can barely move. If it happens more often, say, during a fight, I'm screwed. Hell, I already am—_

A faint series of bangs broke Alex's reverie. He grimaced. _Gunfire to the northwest._ _More Raiders, probably. _He rolled up his bedroll and stuffed it in his pack, along with his canteen. Then he did a quick weapons check. Three bullets left in Blackhawk, and still none in Lincoln's Repeater. Alex holstered his trusty six-shooter, sheathed his trench knife, and pulled down his hood. _Time to go to work._

It took him three minutes of jogging to reach a hill overlooking the gunfire. Alex could hear an assault rifle, possibly an AK, as well as several smaller firearms. A loud bellow was cut short by a series of barks and snarls. _Dogs, and probably Brahmin. Wait…Raiders don't use Brahmin. Or they didn't last time I was here. _Alex drew Blackhawk and warily ascended the hill.

Four Wastelanders, armed with guns, stood in a circle around a feebly mooing Brahmin. The two-headed cow was laden with goods, and its ungainly legs desperately strained to get off the ground. The defenders were surrounded by a pack of circling dogs. The animals barked and snarled, waiting for a gap in the defense. As Alex watched, one lunged and was ripped to shreds by an AK-47. Still, the Wastelanders looked like they were slowing. A few more passes and they would be done for.

Alex sighed. It was impossible to tell what to do here. The defenders might be a caravan, or they might be bloodthirsty Raiders. Saving lives here could endanger other lives later on. Besides, he was low on ammo and needed to conserve supplies until he reached Megaton. The old Alex, the "Lone Wanderer," would have charged in heedless of the costs. Alex couldn't take that risk. Not in the wasteland.

Alex shook his head and turned to leave, when a roaring voice stopped him in his tracks. _It can't be…Jericho?_ Sure enough, the grizzled former Raider was screaming curses at the dogs, and mowing several down with his AK-47. _Jericho lives in Megaton. What is he up to?_ Alex studied the faces of the other three. Two were men he didn't know. Then he did a double take. _Susie Mack? But…she grew up with me in Vault 101. What the hell is she doing out here?_ Another dog darted forward and Susie nailed it with her pistol, but the damage was done. Two more slavering dogs were about to overwhelm her.

Alex was halfway down the slope before he realized what he was doing. Blackhawk fired twice, and both dogs slumped to the ground. Alex let out a primal roar, and barreled into the midst of the pack. Startled dogs yelped and scurried out of the way, eying their latest threat. Alex planted himself and raised Blackhawk threateningly. He only had one bullet left, but the dogs didn't know that. The trick was to assert himself and make them back down. One of the dogs had already gotten over its fear, and was growling menacingly. Alex risked a glance over his shoulder—Jericho and Susie were still preoccupied with the other dogs—and the snarling hound leaped.

Alex flicked out his knife and slashed the dog across the muzzle. It hit the ground yelping, but two more were moving in for the kill. Alex spun and stabbed the first dog, lodging the knife under its jaw, then threw it into the second dog, sending both flying. On instinct, he turned and kicked out at a third dog in midair behind him. He heard a loud CRACK. The dog fell to the dirt and dragged itself away, whining. The rest of the pack cautiously circled him, but he could sense their fear. He narrowed his eyes and bared his teeth in a wild laugh.

Suddenly the pack parted and a black, dirt-encrusted dog loped into the circle. Its eyes were crazed from hunger, and spit dripped from its jaws. The other dogs backed off warily, and Alex grimly smiled. _Kill the alpha, demoralize the rest. _The alpha howled and rapidly charged. Alex waited until it was several inches from him, then rolled right and slashed at the dog's underbelly. To his surprise it leapt over the knife and slammed into him, bowling him over and sending the knife flying. The alpha snapped at his face, and Alex could feel its hot breath. His hands scrabbled for purchase on the dog's fur. Seconds of terrifying nothing—then, a metal collar. He grabbed it, twisted, and flung the dog off him. The alpha slammed into a rock and rose up, snarling. Alex sprang to his feet, snatched his knife, and threw it on a beeline towards the dog's skull.

Alex's mouth fell open. The dog had leaped into the air and caught the knife between its teeth. It landed on all fours, spat out the knife, and stalked towards Alex to resume the fight. Something clicked in Alex's memory. The dog's dark fur, the dirty white stripe on its back, the chain-link collar. Alex relaxed his guard and holstered Blackhawk, stunned. "Dogmeat?"

In a flash the alpha had pounced. Alex barely managed to throw himself aside, and its mouth snapped shut inches from his throat. He rolled away and spread his hands in a nonthreatening pose. "Dogmeat, it's me, Alex!" The alpha lunged again and Alex's hands caught its jaws, barely holding them apart. Alex swore and drove his knee into the dog's belly, winding it. He stumbled backwards and drew Blackhawk. The alpha was struggling to get up again.

Alex leveled Blackhawk at its head, breathing deeply. The other dogs were slowly closing in, and he couldn't kill them all. _Do it._ The alpha raised its head, still growling. Alex looked into its eyes, and saw something familiar. _It __is__ Dogmeat._ The alpha continued to force itself up, panting and snarling. _He's crazed from hunger and age. You'll be doing him a favor. Just do it. _Dogmeat staggered upright and began padding towards him. _He's not your dog anymore! He's a rabid animal. It's you or him. Do it!_

Dogmeat was ten feet away. _Do it._ Five feet away. _Do it!_ Two feet away. _DO IT! _Opening his mouth, readying to spring…BANG.

Dogmeat stiffened. He swayed unsteadily, eyes glazing over, tongue lolling out. For one frozen moment he was suspended in the air. He let out a small whine, and softly sank to the dirt. In his eyes was a simple finality, as if he was content to finally rest. Then he was still, and Alex was left there gripping his gun.

The rest of the pack had already fled the carnage, but Alex was numb to the world. He didn't see the Wastelanders approaching with questioning looks on their faces. He didn't hear Susie's cry of recognition, or Jericho's exclamations. He didn't feel himself dropping Blackhawk, or kneeling down beside Dogmeat. He barely noticed when his back and chest began to spasm, or when white light began to block out his vision. He didn't even feel the pain. All Alex could feel was emptiness, loss, and then—for the second time that day—unconsciousness.

* * *

The figure observed the scene from atop the hill. It examined its smoking .44 Magnum and holstered it underneath its overcoat. It was too bad about the dog, but the figure couldn't let anything harm the Lone Wanderer. The figure had had no choice but to put the animal out of its misery. Hopefully the Lone Wanderer hadn't yet noticed that he was being followed, or that his Magnum wasn't the gun that had fired that last bullet. The figure watched as the two Wastelanders patched up the Brahmin's leg. Jericho and Susie, still shouting frantically, set the Lone Wanderer onto the Brahmin's back. The figure wished that they understood the urgency of the situation. Hopefully Megaton would have the necessary facilities to forestall the Lone Wanderer's "episodes." The more frequently the episodes occurred, the closer he would drift towards death. And the figure's plans required him to survive…for now.

**Quick Author's Note: sorry about the slow update time. I've had these ideas rattling around in my brain and really wanted to do them justice. I've been inserting breaks (* * *) in between certain paragraphs but it hasn't been showing up on the finished product. If anyone knows how to put these in, I'd really appreciate some advice. Thanks to everyone who subscribed and commented-reviews and reviewers are awesome!**


	3. Familiarity

_Megaton was founded by survivors of the nuclear holocaust a few years after the Great War. Since then, it has remained one of the safest settlements in the entire Capitol Wasteland. Ironically, Megaton was founded around an unexploded atomic bomb, so this reputation is questionable. With a sizeable population of about thirty, Megaton has prospered thanks to its proximity to a nearby trade route, its thick, impenetrable walls, and its willingness to accept strangers. Of course, Megaton can afford to be friendly thanks to a few functioning robots and a well-stocked armory. The town has traditionally been run by a Sheriff, although Colin Moriarty currently retains a good deal of influence. Moriarty claims his grandfather helped found the original settlement, but since Moriarty himself funded the construction of the wall (and brings in Caps thanks to his saloon) this is indisputable. Other attractions in Megaton include the Church of Atom, the Brass Lantern, and Craterside Supply—one of the most progressive scientific experimentation centers in the Wasteland. And for tourists, there is the house of the Lone Wanderer, currently in the process of being converted into a museum by yours truly._

_-Excerpt from __The Wasteland Survival Sequel__, by Moira Brown, work in progress_

"Shit shit shit shit shit!"

"He's been like this for hours. God, I hope he's okay…he has to be okay…"

"I don't understand. Where's he been all this time? And where's that thing he always wore on his wrist?"

"Goddamn it, kid, get up! Shit shit shit shit—"

"Quiet, all of you! He's awake."

Alex found that he had a fuzzy hole in place of his recent memory. Fortunately, he'd been knocked unconscious enough times to have developed some procedures for survival. Step one; evaluate immediate injuries. He felt like crap, but the pain at least told him nothing was broken. Step two; assess hunger, thirst, and fatigue. He wasn't tired, but his throat was incredibly dry, and his stomach was cramping up. Step three; do a weapons check. The familiar weight of Lincoln's Repeater wasn't present, and Blackhawk wasn't in its holster. His trench knife was gone as well. Step four; survey the area, and be ready to run like hell. Alex took a deep breath, pushing past the pain, and opened his eyes.

A split second later, Susie Mack had tackled him in a bone-crushing hug. Jericho simply shook his head and sucked on his cigarette, rolling his eyes. "Damn, kid, you clean up fast." Alex stared around, dumbfounded, as Susie released him. He was lying on a cot, surrounded by familiar faces. Some seemed anxious, some seemed bewildered, but they all appeared happy to see him. He recognized Doc Church, Lucy West, the Stahl siblings. _They were my friends when I lived in..._

"Megaton? Am I in Megaton?"

"Damn right, boy," intoned a deep voice. Alex's head turned sharply to see a muscular, bearded black man standing near the door. He fingered the sheriff's badge on his duster and adjusted his wide-brimmed hat. The man scowled at him, and Alex returned the glare. "You got a lot of nerve showin' up here after five years," growled the man.

"Maybe I just missed your ugly mug, Sheriff Simms," Alex retorted.

They held their standoff for several seconds, and then both men broke into grins. The Sheriff reached the cot in several long strides and firmly clasped Alex's hand. "Lucas Simms, still alive and kicking," said Alex, grinning. "Damn, it's good to see you."

Lucas tipped his hat and smiled, and as if on cue, a general feeling of euphoria began to swell throughout the room. _He was back…the heroic Lone Wanderer, the last, best hope of humanity, was back where he belonged…they were saved!_

A stabbing pain suddenly shot through Alex's side. It must have shown in his face, because Lucas swiftly turned to address the crowd. "Jericho, Susie, you two can stay. Doc, he's your patient so do what you want. The rest of you let the boy rest." The Wastelanders began to grumble, but Lucas's voice again cut through the crowd. "Look, I know this is big news, but the questions can wait until he's up and healthy. He doesn't need all of you crowding him. Now get back to your posts and give us some privacy!" Lucas crossed his arms and the crowd quickly filed out of the clinic.

Alex attempted to raise himself up off the cot, but Doc Church firmly forced him back down. "You, young man, are in no state to be moving. Your body is under a tremendous amount of strain right now, and the best thing for you to do would be to lie down and—"

"Ah, give it a rest, Doc," interrupted Jericho. "If the kid wants to get up, let him get up. Hell, that's the first thing I'd want to do in his place…after a drink, of course…"

"Alex, what's going on?" asked Susie. "You disappear without telling anyone, giving no explanation. We all thought you were dead! Then you show up out of the blue after five years, and you start having a seizure, or a heart attack, or….or…Alex, what was that?" Alex, who was still futilely struggling against Doc Church, suddenly slumped back down. _Oh god…I was fighting those dogs…but I blacked out again…and…and Dogmeat..._

Alex turned to the Sheriff, feeling frantic. "Lucas, Dogmeat was shot. He was rabid, and crazed, and…I think I did it, but I can't remember…Lucas, I need to find out what's happened to everyone, and then I need to leave! I can't stay here, I just can't!"

"It's not a question of personal—" began Doc Church, but Alex was already struggling to get out of the cot. Church began mumbling something about a sedative, but a raised hand from Lucas quieted him almost instantly.

"Listen, boy, I think I'm inclined to agree with the good Doctor," said Lucas. "I didn't understand everything he told me, but from what I can tell you're suffering from extreme radiation poisoning. We've got you hooked up on RadAway, but you need to rest easy and let the IV do its work. We'll answer your questions when you're back to full strength."

Alex shook his head stubbornly. "No, no, medicine doesn't work. I've tried that already, I've tried everything. Please, listen to me; I've been gone for five years! I need to know everything, I need to make sure—" _That no one else is dead because of me, _Alex finished silently. Lucas seemed to understand, for he nodded and backed away from the cot. Ignoring the Doctor's protests, Alex extended a hand and grabbed the railing, fighting off the feelings of dizziness and lightheadedness. He took a deep breath and, with some effort, steadied himself. Then he glanced at Church, and Lucas, seeming to catch on, tapped the Doctor on the shoulder and gestured. Church threw up his hands and stormed out of the clinic, slamming the door behind him.

Alex turned back to the trio. "Alright, I'll answer your questions if you answer mine. There are some things I can't and won't tell you. My reasons for leaving, for instance, are mine and mine alone. Is that clear?" Jericho snorted incredulously, but one glare from Susie shut him up. Alex chose to take their silence as assent.

"So where have you been, exactly?" asked Susie. "You know, for the last five years? Did you think no one would notice you'd vanished off the face of the earth? And what about your Pip-Boy 3000? Everyone from the Vault got one, but it's not on your wrist anymore. Wouldn't it have been more practical to wear it, to keep track of your radiation levels?"

Alex laughed. "Yeah, that would have really been helpful. Like I needed more reminders that my insides were disintegrating. Just kidding—" he added hastily, for Susie had gasped—"I'm fine, my problems are nothing to worry about. That thing you saw back there was just my…immune system flushing out excess radiation.

"I've been having these episodes on and off for a few years now. Just some lingering side effects from a heavy radiation zone I encountered. I can take care of myself." Lucas raised an eyebrow but said nothing. "Honestly. As long as I control my breathing and meditate a few times a day, my body will handle the rest. No one will be in any danger.

"As to where I've been…well, wandering mostly. Up and down the East Coast. I've been to Ronto, the Commonwealth, Rida, the Jersey Desert, the Appalachian Wasteland…I've been west as well. Visited Rushmore; some outlying NCR states; Caesar's Canyon. I haven't been as far west as New Vegas, though; too much conflict going on there for my liking. As to my Pip-Boy 3000, I left it here. You learn quickly not to stand out in the Wasteland, and a Pip-Boy very clearly identifies you as a Vault Dweller. So I gave it to the Brotherhood of Steel to study. So if I've answered all of your questions, you answer mine. First things first: since when do you two—" he pointed at Jericho and Susie—"guard caravans? Susie, I know that when I…left, Vault 101 was establishing contact with the outside, but how did you end up here in Megaton? With Jericho, no less?"

"Actually, Alex, Jericho and the others came to us," responded Susie. "Our scouts had already discovered Megaton by the time you disappeared, but the Overseer was unwilling to make contact until we had something to trade." Susie cleared her throat. "You, uh, know what Amata is like." Alex blocked out the name—_she doesn't matter anymore, she's not important_ —and beckoned for Susie to continue.

"So by the time Megaton settlers showed up, we had a stockpile of food and some really crappy guns. Fortunately for us, they were willing to trade scrap metal, armor, and weapons if we could provide them with water that our filtration systems had purified. Emissaries were sent back and forth to foster relations, and we've taken it in turns to protect the caravan. It's a mutually beneficial partnership."

Alex was confused; something didn't add up. "Hang on, why does Megaton need pure water? Project Purity was activated; I saw to that. The entire wasteland had fresh clean Aqua Pura, and the Brotherhood of Steel was working with Rivet City to distribute it. Hell," Alex laughed, "Three Dog wouldn't shut up about the stupid thing for…for…"

Susie and Lucas were regarding him with serious, unsmiling faces. Jericho laughed derisively, dropped his cigarette onto the ground, and crushed it beneath his foot. "Well, Mr. high-and-mighty Lone Wanderer, here's the thing. Three Dog has been off the air for about as long as you've been away. He was a threat to the Brotherhood, so they had him removed. Simple as that."

Alex stared at Jericho for a few seconds, then sighed. "Alright Jericho, very funny. And I suppose the Enclave is back as well, and they've taken over Washington with an army of Aliens. Come on, Lucas, tell me what's really going on."

"Jericho," warned Lucas, but a vein was twitching in the grizzled man's bald head. Jericho stormed towards Alex and jabbed a dirty finger into his chest.

"You think I'm joking, is that it?" Jericho snarled, spraying spit with each syllable. "You think you can just disappear after five years and then swoop in like you're some conquering hero or something? Kid, I wish it WAS the Enclave. Give that merc army to the north and those Brotherhood assholes in D.C. something to think about. That would make our lives a hell of a lot easier! As it stands, we're swimming in our own piss and there isn't a drop of Aqua Pura in sight. And whose fault is that, do you think? You fuckin' vanish off the face of the earth and you come here refusing to tell us shit? FUCK YOU!"

Jericho turned and stormed out, leaving Alex staring straight ahead, dumbfounded. Susie swore under her breath and rushed out after Jericho. Several moments later Alex could hear the two berating each other outside. Lucas sighed and massaged his eyes, but Alex barely even noticed, so engrossed was he in his own thoughts. _What is he talking about? Is this all because of me? What is going on?_

"I'll have a talk with Jericho later," said Lucas. "We've all been a little high-strung lately, what with all of…well, you'll have to see for yourself. Do you think you're well enough to move?" Alex silently nodded. "Alright, come with me. Your weapons are there on the table. I'll talk as we walk."

* * *

The first thing Alex noticed was the missing bomb. It wasn't that he had had any sort of attachment to the nuke sitting in the center of Megaton. No, it was more the absence of the Church of Atom. Its cultists had, after all, made a lifestyle out of proclaiming the eternal honor and glory of their explosive prophet. Alex turned quizzically to the Sheriff.

"Lucas, where'd the bomb go?" he asked.

Lucas rolled his eyes. "Oh. That. We sold it. Visitors were getting tired of Confessor Cromwell and his crazies worshipping the damn thing. Not to mention the radiation was contaminating the water pipes. So some sleazy businessman bought it for a sack of Caps, and the cult went with it. We used the money to renovate the Church and turn it into a warehouse for the town's supplies."

Alex shrugged. "Sounds fair, I guess."

"Yep," agreed Lucas, "but Moira wasn't too pleased. She'd wanted to dissect the stupid thing for months. Could have blown us all to hell! Scientific progress my ass…"

Alex carefully followed Lucas up the rickety ramp leading to the top of the town wall. There was still some pain left in his side, but he concentrated on putting one foot in front of the other. Looking around, he noticed that everyone seemed to be in a hurry. Settlers were running with ammunition, running with supplies, or just simply running. The elation from his return was gone, and a somber mood filled the air.

"So what did Jericho mean by the Brotherhood 'removing' Three Dog?" asked Alex. "Three Dog's been one of their staunchest allies for years, right?"

"Yes and no," replied Lucas. "About five years ago, Brotherhood chatter from D.C. went dark. The Aqua Pura shipments just stopped. We assumed things would be back on track within a few months, but they weren't. The refugees, meanwhile, just kept coming and coming, all after the same thing: fresh water. We accepted some, but most had to be turned away. After all, we were low on supplies ourselves. They all went east into D.C., and didn't come back this way again. Your friend Butch volunteered to travel to Rivet City, to scout the situation. He hasn't come back yet either."

"So what exactly happened?" asked Alex, sidestepping a passing woman laden with crates of ammunition. The woman took one look at him and nearly dropped everything. Stammering an apology, she hurried away.

Lucas chuckled. "The new regime happened. The Brotherhood of Steel emerged from radio silence two years ago, proclaiming its current objectives. They are, in order: accumulation of technology, eradication of mutation, and protection of citizens. Except that means taking everybody's technology, killing all Ghouls and all Super Mutants, and protecting Brotherhood citizens. The rest of us mere Wastelanders have to fend for ourselves."

Alex was silent for a while. _Unbelievable. What happened to the Brotherhood? What happened to Sarah? _"I don't understand. The Brotherhood of Steel supported my father and his research. They've worked tirelessly to protect all of humanity. I trusted them to take care of the Capitol Wasteland while I was gone. And you're saying they just took over and—"

"That's exactly what I'm saying," interrupted Lucas. "They've moved their base of operations to the National Mall, and from what we can make out they have complete control over the G.E.C.K…and, as a result, the Aqua Pura. Everybody else is stuck around the outside, fighting for territory and water. It's a goddamn warzone over there. Three Dog tried to organize rebellion, so they took over his radio station. No one knows whether he's dead or imprisoned or what. Much like you, in fact," he finished. He eyed Alex impassively as they walked. It was impossible to tell what he was thinking.

"So what about the Regulators?" asked Alex. "Both of us were members, after all. 'Enforcers of justice, defenders of freedom.' Sonora Cruz and the rest of you, you could have mounted a counterattack to reclaim the water supply."

Lucas stopped to regard him, and for the first time he appeared angry. "Alex, look at me. I am much, much older than you. I have a teenage son who I love more than anything, and god knows I miss his mother more than anything. It would be a damn insult to her memory to abandon my kid and go off on a wild adventure. That's your job."

Alex looked down and swallowed hard. He remembered the first time he'd met Sheriff Simms. The imposing man had made him feel like an irresponsible child, and he was sure doing a good job at it now.

Lucas's steely gaze softened, and he beckoned Alex to follow once more. "It's alright. I know you didn't mean nothing by it. In any case, it wouldn't have mattered if I was single, lonely, and twenty years old. Sonora is dead and the Regulators have disbanded. And before you ask why," he added as they reached the top of the wall, "take a look for yourself."

Alex joined Lucas and a few others that were gazing to the north. One of the onlookers noticed Alex, and passed him a pair of grungy binoculars. Alex peered into the distance, trying to make out what the others were looking at. He could just make out the ruined township of Springvale, and some neighboring buildings. Then, his jaw dropped. _What in the name of…_

Soldiers were moving in the distance. Soldiers in rusted combat armor, with high-powered rifles, missile launchers, energy weapons and swords. There were too many to count, but Alex estimated at least fifty. The soldiers moved as a well-organized unit, setting up positions and preparing for battle with a grim efficiency that Alex had only seen before in the Brotherhood and the Enclave. Alex could also see mortar teams, several motorcycles, and even an outdated Chimera tank. Emblazoned on the tank was a shining crimson skull.

"Who are they?" asked Alex. "Raiders? Slavers? Caesar's Legion?"

"_Whose_ legion?" inquired another one of the Wastelanders, looking interested.

"No," answered Lucas, "this is Division Eight of Styx Company, the latest gang of bloodthirsty mercenaries to set foot in the Capitol Wasteland. They are ruthless, determined, and unstoppable. Nobody knows who hired them or what they're being paid to do. But we do know that they crush and enslave everyone that gets in their way. Including the Regulators.

"They've assimilated about twenty Raider gangs and mopped up what was left of the Slavers. Even Talon Company is gone now. Styx Co. just shelled Fort Bannister to the ground and let starvation do the rest. In other words, they're the next generation of asshole. And the one group that could come close to making a difference—"

"—Has their heads so far stuck in the sand that they can't see what's right on their doorstep, aye?" interrupted a piercing Irish voice. Alex lowered the binoculars and turned to see a pot-bellied man standing behind them. The man had a full head of greasy white hair and cold, shifty eyes. Alex recognized him almost instantly.

"My apologies, mates," the man continued in a mocking tone, "but the good Mr. Sheriff has repeated his same little speech so often, I reckon I've just about memorized it! Well, how about it, Mr. Sheriff. Who's the poor sap you're bamboozlin' this time, eh?"

"Hello, Moriarty," said Alex, raising his hood. The man's scornful face instantly melted into one of supplication. He bounded forward, radiating goodwill from every pore, and began pumping Alex's hand in a handshake.

"Well lookie here, Mr. Lone Wanderer sir, I certainly didn't know you were up-and-about, now, eh? I would have been straight down to see you, now, bless your irradiated heart I would have, only—"

"What do you want, Colin?" interrupted Lucas, regarding him with a heavyset frown.

Moriarty scowled, but quickly composed himself into a smile and relinquished the handshake. "Well, Mr. Sheriff, I'm lookin' for that good-for-nothing ingrate Ghoul of mine. He ain't workin' at the bar, and he ain't with Nova, and I'm sure as hell goin' to tan his hide if he thinks he can sleep on the job in my saloon!"

"I've told you a thousand times, Moriarty," growled Lucas, "If you lay a finger on Gob, I'll break your lousy neck. Just because he's a Ghoul doesn't mean he's not a human being, although I'm not quite sure where you rank on the scale…"

"Go to fuckin' hell, Sheriff Simms," sneered Moriarty, any vestiges of civility now gone. "He's my property and I'll treat him however I please. Now where is he?"

Lucas eyed Moriarty with barely concealed contempt but did nothing. "I put him on guard duty in the center of town," he said. "Billy Creel needed some time to keep an eye on Maggie, and Gob volunteered to take over for an hour. Besides, there aren't any customers in your saloon today. I'll cover his wages."

Moriarty opened his mouth to argue when a piercing horn blast punctured the air. All around, settlers dropped what they were carrying and began heading to the front gate. The group at the top wall scattered almost instantly. Moriarty, for his part, gave Alex a quick nod and stumped off towards his saloon. Lucas swore and headed down the ramp, readying his rifle as he went. Alex followed as fast as he could.

"Lucas, what the hell's going on?" called Alex. "Where's everyone going?"

"That was Stockholm with the gate horn," replied Lucas. "Two blasts means it's a caravan, three blasts means it's an attack."

"And one blast?" asked Alex, struggling to keep up.

"Outcasts," Lucas responded, and he redoubled his pace.

The pair finally reached the center of town, where about twenty other settlers were facing the gate with readied weapons. Lucas moved to the front of the crowd to address them. "Keep your safeties on, and don't make any sudden moves. Jericho and Leo, you're with me. Let's stay calm. Lucy, ready that sniper rifle just in case. Everything's going to be fine, nobody needs to panic. Alex," he said suddenly, turning to him, "Stay out of sight. No one knows you're alive yet, and you are the most important person in the entire Capitol Wasteland. Don't do anything stupid." Alex nodded—silently promising not to stand by and let anyone die, either—and melted to the back of the crowd. Lucas turned back to face the gate, and motioned to Jericho and Leo. The two men moved towards opposite sides of the gate, and pulled hard on the dangling chains. With a rusty clanking noise, the propeller in the gate spun to life, and the door rose open.

Three bulky, shadowy figures walked inside, with radioactive wind billowing around them and blowing up dust. For one brief, wild moment Alex thought they were Super Mutants—then the dust cleared and Alex could see black and red suits of dingy Power Armor. The figures were heavily armed and armored, with laser rifles on each hip and faceless black helmets. They surveyed the crowd of armed settlers—one's eyes traveling onto Alex for a moment—before turning towards Lucas.

"We have the armaments you requested right here," said the central figure in an electronic voice. It held out a burlap sack that Leo took and inspected.

"One high-power Plasma Pistol…check. Six frag grenades…check. Three pulse grenades…check. Six frag mines…check. Two low-intensity Laser Pistols…check. One 9mm heavy machine gun…check. Looks like that's everything, Sheriff."

"And now, for the payment in return," said the figure on the left, its robotic voice revealing no emotion. Leo set the sack on the ground and handed Lucas two holotapes. Alex could just make out the words "Code Deciphered" on one before the figure in the center took them from Lucas's outstretched hand.

"Do thank Ms. Brown for the tapes," said the figure on the right, expressionless. They rotated, seemingly to leave, when a drunken roar pierced the air. The crowd turned to see Gob the Ghoul being thrown out of the warehouse into the street, Moriarty chasing after him. Gob, pleading, raised his hands in surrender, but Moriarty simply punched him in the stomach and kicked him aside. A red-haired woman broke from the crowd—Nova, thought Alex with a jolt—to stand over Gob, screaming obscenities at Moriarty, but he simply slapped her aside and kicked Gob again. Gob was begging for mercy…Moriarty was punching him again…Nova was sobbing… And no one was doing anything…they were all just watching…

Before he had any idea what he was doing, Alex was pushing through the crowd and charging the Irish man. Moriarty must have sensed someone approaching, for he was beginning to raise his head when Alex punched him hard in the face. Alex felt something crack-probably his jaw, he reflected, with a certain savage satisfaction-and vaguely heard someone shouting in the background. _No matter._ Moriarty was down on all fours, writhing in pain, and Alex bent down to grab his grimy shirt. The man coughed up blood. "You're gonna pay for that, you son-of-a-" was all he got out before Alex drove a knee into him and threw him back to the ground.

All he could see was a red haze. The blood was thundering through his veins, and there was a ringing in his ears. He could feel someone grabbing him, struggling to pull him back, shouting, "ALEX, STOP! STOP!" Alex jerked away and wrenched out Blackhawk, shaking with rage-

Moriarty was down in the dirt, panting and grinning craftily. His jaw was misshapen but his eyes were sparkling with some dark emotion Alex couldn't place. In his hand was a sawed-off shotgun, loaded and aimed at Alex.

"Some...fuckin' hero...you turned out to be...eh, boyo?" he managed in between coughs. " You're not a messiah. You're not...a god. You're n-not even a man! You think...think you can p-pass judgement on us? Think you're...b-better than us?" He laughed and spat out a tooth. "You can't kill me. You _won't _kill me. My saloon and m-my Caps are what holds this...dung heap of a town together. Hell...if you were r-really going to shoot me, why haven't you...done it by now? Maybe you're scared. Maybe...your f-filthy hypocritical 'morals' are stopping you from killing pitiful ol' me. Or maybe," he laughed again, "Maybe you're just as m-much of an animal as the rest of us...and you just don't have enough fucking bullets to pull the trigger."

The silence was deafening.

Moriarty sneered and lowered the shotgun. "That's just what I thought." He lurched to his feet, eyed Gob and Nova, and staggered off, spitting curses in every direction.

Alex turned around, noticing almost immediately that the three figures in armor were gone. The crowd of settlers were watching him, silent as the grave, as if they had never seen him before. All of them were avoiding his eyes. Alex found that he couldn't blame them.

Lucas looked like he'd just aged ten years. Then it was gone, and he was ordering settlers back to their posts, breaking up the gathering. Lucas turned back to Alex and said nothing for a moment. "I think one of the Outcasts may have recognized you. They were relaying something into a wristpiece." Alex was suddenly conscious of his blood-stained hands. Lucas watched him carefully, then grunted. "Don't worry about Moriarty. I'll keep him out of your way. Come on," he motioned, "Let's go get you some ammo."

Alex took a good long look at the town. He saw Wastelanders everywhere hurrying away, Jericho watching him suspiciously, Susie's eyes wide with fear, Nova comforting Gob on the ground. He looked down at his red hands, and couldn't help wondering whether the rest of the Wasteland would be as familiar.

**Author's Note: Sorry it's been so long since I've updated this story! I've been really busy with school and stuff. I'll try to update this more frequently, and continue to brainstorm on how I want this to go. And please, read and review! Random reviews really rock writers'...uh...wrinkles? **

**Oh, and just picture Lucas Simms with the voice of Samuel L. Jackson and you'll get a good idea of his personality.**

**P.S. Alright, I did some rewrites to this chapter. Very Sawry. Will update soon.**


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